Courfeyrac is nervous when he gets to the party with Enjolras. He still feels uneasy but he plasters a smile on his face as he leads Enjolras inside (he can tell Enjolras is reluctant, although he is trying not to be. Courfeyrac will give him credit for that). The house is fairly crowded, full of teenagers laughing and drinking and there’s pounding music coming from somewhere inside.
He skirts through the crowd, Enjolras clutching at his sleeve to keep behind him, until they reach what Courfeyrac assumes is the living room. There’s a smaller group gathered (it seems like everyone else—and that pounding music—is in the basement or in the pool in the back) and Courfeyrac recognizes several of them from class. His smile isn’t totally fake when he brings Enjolras over to join their group.
The night isn’t totally terrible; once he’s with some friends, and given a few drinks, he can almost ignore what happened with Combeferre. It’s just that unpleasant curling in his stomach that won’t go away, as pleasantly drunk as he starts getting (with Enjolras frowning at him the whole time).
Eventually they split up and Courfeyrac wanders to one of the rooms in the basement, Enjolras still behind him, where a number of kids in his year—including Andrea—are gathered and giggling.
“Courfeyrac!” A girl named Marie squeals and comes up to drag him into the circle that’s forming. “Come on—we need more cute boys.”
Andrea doesn’t look upset to see him, but she does squint a little at him. “He’s bonded. He can’t play.”
“Play what?” he asks. Marie is still dragging him and pulling him down into the circle.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” Marie giggles, falling against him when she sits. Courfeyrac thought he was drunk, but she’s beyond him.
“I can play,” Courfeyrac insists boldly. He’s not going to let Andrea be right—and anyways, Combeferre doesn’t want him now. He can do whatever he wants and what he wants is to kiss someone, right?
“Fine,” Andrea says breezily. “You can go first.”
Courfeyrac blinks dumbly until a bottle is shoved at him and one of the other guys says, “Go already.”
“Oh. Right,” he laughs and spins the bottle.
It points to a girl with dark curly hair and dark skin that Courfeyrac doesn’t know. She smiles shyly at him as the others oooh and laugh over them.
Marie beside him pushes him. “Go on, to the closet.”
Courfeyrac stands, a little numb, and puts on his best fake smile again. The girl takes his hand and leads him back to a door that he hadn’t noticed before. And then they’re alone. In a closet. Expected to make out.
He can feel that she’s staring expectantly at him, even if he can’t see in the dark. She moves his hand to her waist and And then they’re both leaning forward and… and their lips meet.
It’s not bad. In fact, Courfeyrac will admit that it feels kind-of nice. There’s something about kissing that he really likes and apparently that doesn’t have to do just with Combeferre.
But it also feels horrible and wrong, like he’s going to be sick. Because it’s not Combeferre. And it should be Combeferre.
